


Can't see tomorrow with yesterday's eyes

by littlehands



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:58:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehands/pseuds/littlehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Martha Jones, do you intend to stare at me all night?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't see tomorrow with yesterday's eyes

**Author's Note:**

> S3 during Shakespeare Code

She knows that he isn't sleeping. Sure, his eyes are closed, breathing slow and steady - even his body is relaxed. But Martha Jones, doctor in training, know he isn't asleep. He might be an alien and all, but she's not that dense. He's still flat on his back, sprawled out just a touch, taking up too much of the hard bed, maybe just to piss her off - or maybe, she think, it's just that he hasn't shared a bed in a while, a lifetime maybe. She does wonder if he knows that she's staring at him, he must, being all alien and a bit of a show-off. Shifting slightly so the frame of the bed isn't digging into her hip (really does a straw mattress do anything other then make you itch all over); he exhales softly, and her heart freezes for moment, then beats at a mad clip to make up for that momentary pause.

"Martha Jones, do you intend to stare at me all night?"

All the witty replies that would have sprung from her lips are lost in the dim glow of the fire. His eyes flash gold and are sharp and soft at the same time - just like him, she thinks, biting her lip.

"Sorry, couldn't sleep."

He rolls over facing her again, blinking the (fake) sleep out of his eyes. She curls up, almost defensively - arms in front of her chest, chin tucked in. Wonders what happens next, will he launch into some breathless monologue or will he yet again say something that just cuts to her heart, another jibe at the fact that she's not her - whoever she is. The whirlwind of the last few days seems to pause for a moment, or at least the creaking of the inn and the voices drifting up from the street remind her of something, something solid and controlled. Even more a moment she forgets that she's in the past, that he's some time lord and it's strangely normal, maybe.

He's a breath away from her face, she can smell him or at least something besides smoke and wax. Something sparks and she wonders if is bad form for her to be thinking about kissing him. She can't help it, he's shown her the past and saved her present, something epic about him - like kissing him would be tasting the edge of time. Dipping her fingers into the pools and tides of memory, maybe he'd open up some door and show her - just her - infinity. Or would it just be a kiss, no grand images, just lips and heat and all those utterly normal but wonderful things.

She shudders, like a ghost is tracing a line up her spine.

"Cold?"

"Just a draft."

He smiles just slightly, a smirk really. He can see right through her, like lighting caught up in glass - all light and sharp angles. Not in an invasive way, she thinks, just he knows, knows things. He reaches to the floor beside him, grabbing at the air until he flings his coat over both of them - mostly her though, she notices. It's soft, like cashmere but not, not scratchy like those sweaters that feel so good in the store but itch all over when at home. It's clean and warm, and as he scoots closer to her, she realizes how tired she is.

They aren't touching, but she can hear his two hearts beating - it's like the ocean and the rain, steady and deep. Just as she's drifting off, barely hanging on to the corners of awareness, she feels (thinks she does, hope she does) him kiss her hair. Like a feather on her skin, like the brush of silk - moment there a moment gone - she knows.


End file.
